Negative Space
by ainokitsune
Summary: Written for a horror comment-fic meme. Updated with chapter 2, in which Sam gets what he's always wanted. Not quite a happy ending, though...
1. Negative Space

_For the __sharp_teeth __ March Madness comment fic meme, for the __prompt __"Dean was born, Dean died at the age of three. So who/what carries Sam out of the house that night? And why does John keep insisting on calling it, Dean? Is Dean even there?"  
><em>  
><em>Note: This is just weirdness.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Negative Space<strong>

"Make room," Dad says.

So Sam makes room, scooting over on the broken-down sofa. He'd like to think there was a breath or a moment of warmth, something tangible and real. But there's not. Just Sam, settled against the armrest, feet planted on the floor, skinny arms awkward and fingers tangled in on themselves like overgrown thornbushes. Just Sam, and the empty space beside him.

John nods his approval at the table and goes back to work, bending low over the journal and stacks of newspapers. Sam slits a glance to the side. Fights a ridiculous urge to ask, "So whaddaya wanna watch?" of the silence beside him.

In the end, he pulls his feet off the floor, curls in more firmly against the armrest, and reaches for the remote.

* * *

><p>It's cold, and dark outside, and the amulet from Uncle Bobby rests heavy in his hand. Dad was supposed to be back <em>today<em>. It's Christmas and he _promised_. But he's not back, and the room is silent without his presence.

"Dean'll take care of you," Dad had said, and Sam had to actually physically bite his tongue.

"You'll be fine for a couple of days." And he ruffled his hand through Sam's hair, shouldered his bag, and was gone.

There are two beds in the room. One is Sam's, covered in books and a few loose candy wrappers. The other belongs to Dean, and is as neatly made as it had been the day they arrived in the room. The poor light from the lamp between the beds falls across the bedspread. Sam looks down at the newspaper-wrapped amulet, and squeezes it slowly in his fist.

Dad was supposed to be back _today_.

* * *

><p>"Watch out for your brother," Dad says, and Sam obediently skirts the empty space where his eyes fall. Doesn't think about it until afterward, and glances back at the spot.<p>

This is how they move. How they have always moved. Three people moving around each other, the corporeality of one described by the motion of the other two. Motion. Sam moves a lot, has learned to be light on his feet. John buys him soft shoes, reminds him to walk on his toes. Says, "For God's sake, boy, look where you're putting your damn feet."

Sam has learned to make Dean's shape even when his father isn't around.

* * *

><p>There are no ghosts like Dean. That's what Sam thought it was, for a long time, but it turns out even the most benign ghosts leave evidence. If nothing else, the noticeable drop of air temperature is enough to give their presence away.<p>

Sam knows now that there's no change in temperature. No spectral images, no ectoplasm or strange odors, no unaccountable sounds. Things don't move on their own, no unearthly voices whisper from the walls, and Sam has never felt a Presence.

He's pretty sure Dad hasn't either.

There's just this _space._ At the dinner table, Sam sets a place, doesn't even realize he's doing it until he's halfway through and then he stands there, alone at the table over an open box of pizza, staring at the paper plate and napkin, and the silence weighs down on him. He's inside a little circle of light and outside the sky is black and the corners of the room are heavy and dark and empty.

He closes the box and puts it in the fridge.

Dad won't be back for two more days, at least.

* * *

><p>Sam takes the amulet from the secret pocket in his bag. It's still in the wrapping, the newspaper worn and faded by the passage of time. Slowly, with fingers grown deft through years of training, he unwraps it, peeling away the tape and paper, exposing the small brass head to the air.<p>

He weighs it carefully in his palm.

"Don't come back," Dad had said.

"If you walk out that door, don't come back."

He's standing in the empty dorm room, his bag at his feet. It's a double. There's going to be another person here soon.

He paces the room. Seven steps to the window. Fifteen steps from wall to wall.

He doesn't move around Dean. It takes two people to make that shape. Sam's new roommate isn't going to know how.

Dean isn't here.

* * *

><p>Jess burns. She <em>burns.<em>

Sam's never seen anything like it. Can't remember feeling heat like this, or sickness, or the warmth of her blood where it's fallen and smeared on his face. She's on the ceiling and he has to get her down.

He has to get her down.

When strong hands grab him and haul him backwards, Sam chokes in shock and something like horrible, awful relief. He twists violently around, and finds himself staring into a familiar face.

"Dad?" he gasps, but doesn't have time for more. Can't manage any more. Is being dragged backwards and down the stairs and suddenly he's on the lawn under the stars gasping and coughing and heaving up a lung. The roar of the fire goes on behind him.

He gets to his feet with difficulty, staggering a little and wiping at his face, his streaming eyes. Stares up at the house blazing away in the night. Looks at Dad, scowling and glowering with soot on his face, opening and closing big, scarred hands. Sam's life goes on burning down into nothing.

Nothing.

He says, "Dad."

His father looks at him, meets his eyes briefly. Sam quails back from what he sees there.

"Both of you come on," he barks, and Sam glances briefly to his left, to the empty space in the grass, before hurrying to follow after their father.

The Impala squats low in the grass.

Sam's going to have to ride in the back.

Again.

-the end-

* * *

><p><em>Note: Um, this just kind of happened. I can't really explain it.<em>


	2. Lost and Found

Lost and Found

-  
><em>I told you when I came, I was a stranger<em>  
>-<p>

Sam opens his eyes on a wash of white, the glare of artificial light on linoleum smearing across his vision like a memory of phosphor. A rush of noise swells in a wave and then settles into a background hum. He blinks rapidly as shapes coalesce. Chairs, people, a counter, a table. A man, sitting on the other side of the table, very nearly scowling.

"I'm sorry, sunshine, am I boring you over here?"

Sam's gaze sharpens suddenly.

He doesn't know this man. He's never seen his face before.

"Sammy?"

Sam's out of the chair so fast it clatters on the floor but he doesn't care, even a little. He stumbles outside under a robin's-egg sky, and stares up at the perfect cloudless dome. The world tilts and his legs buckle.

He's hunched over, hands on his knees, sucking in air when a hand drops heavy and strong on his shoulder.

"Sam?" the man from the diner asks. "You okay?"

The light hurts Sam's eyes.

* * *

><p>He winds up in the Impala, in the passenger's seat. It's unfamiliar and awkward and he shifts around, trying to adjust. He's not sure how he got here, and there's someone in the driver's seat. He's got short hair and a worried face and he sits behind the wheel like he damn well belongs there. He's looking at Sam and all the gruff irritation from the diner has vanished.<p>

"The hell's the matter with you?" he demands, nearly growling, but there's concern edging the words.

Sam shrinks back against the door. All he can think to say is, "The Djinn."

"What?" The man squints at him. "Sammy, we wasted that bastard days ago. What is it? What's the matter?"

But it hasn't been days. It's been minutes. Less than minutes. Seconds. Sam remembers the wall against his back and the tattoos and the bright light. The shock of it. He'd thought, _This is what it feels like. Okay. Okay._

"Sammy, c'mon. You're freakin' me out here."

"I—" he rubs a hand across his eyes. "I'm okay. Sorry. I'm—sorry."

"Yeah, you're looking just peachy."

"Don't worry about me," he murmurs. The man snorts.

"S'kinda my job, you giant pain in the ass."

Alarms are squealing in Sam's head, and as they pull away from the curb he stares and stares.

In a tiny voice he whispers, "Dean?"

Intelligent hazel eyes flicker in his direction, then back to the road.

"Maybe you should get in the back. Lie down for a while."

"No," Sam shakes his head quickly, sharply. "No, I'm fine. I'll stay."

The only response is a snort.

* * *

><p>Sam wraps long arms around his belly in the motel bathroom and leans against the door. His skin is cold and he's shivering. The room has two beds and he'd stood on the threshold and stared until he was shoved sharply from behind and for a moment he'd thought that it was Dad.<p>

It wasn't.

"Chrissakes, Sam, go lay down or something. Your weirdo vibes are makin' me nervous."

"Uh. I'm gonna—"he'd gestured vaguely and fled into the bathroom, shaking all over.

And now he staggers across the tiles and is sick into the sink. When the door crashes open he flinches and squeezes his eyes shut again and tears burn, but not as much as the hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and the voice whispering, "Shh, it's okay. You're fine. It's fine."

"It's _not,_" he chokes out, cold and hot and shaking. Fumbles a hand out and gets a good hold on the well-worn material of a jacket. He doesn't know what color it is.

But he knows what color he wants it to be.

_"Dean'll take care of you."_

He's manhandled into the room and nearly flung onto the bed farthest from the door. He rolls onto his back and stares dazedly at the ceiling. At the wash of sunlight across painted plaster. He can see shapes in the textured pattern. He wipes vaguely at his eyes.

"I'm okay," he says aloud, to the air.

"The hell you are," snarls out of the space to his left, and he flinches. Doesn't pull away, though, when a heavy body depresses the mattress and a water bottle hoves into view. Just reaches out an unsteady hand and takes it.

"What am I gonna do with you, Sammy?" Dean sighs.

Sam shivers a little, but he gets the bottle open.

* * *

><p>He wakes up in the middle of the night and someone's breathing, <em>there's someone in the room,<em> and it isn't even really dark and he's halfway out of the bed, tangled in sheets, when a rough voice mutters, "Sam?" and the mattress of the other bed creaks.

He slides bare feet onto the floor.

_"Make room."_

_"Look where you're putting your feet, boy."_

He exhales carefully. Watches where his feet land as he pads over to the other bed.

"Dean," he whispers. The shape stirs, flails vaguely at the air.

"What?" Dean demands, "What?"

But Sam doesn't say anything and after a while Dean grumbles himself back into sleep. Sam goes on standing there, unmoving, staring down. He barely even breathes.

He doesn't move for a long time.

There are no shapes to make.

In sleep, Dean is a dark still mass. Sam can hear him breathing. It fills the room, even the corners where the glare of the streetlight doesn't reach. Sam sinks down to the floor and clenches one hand on the rough blanket of his brother's bed. Presses his lips together and doesn't make a sound. He's shaking again, every inch of him trembling.

This is what dying feels like.

He huddles as close to the bed as he can, both hands clutching at the bedding. He doesn't mind the trembling. He doesn't mind.

* * *

><p>In the morning, Sam puts on a pair of boots.<p>

He doesn't think about where he's putting his feet at all.

-the end-

* * *

><p><em>Notes: That's a Leonard Cohen quote there at the top.<em>

_I don't know if writing this was a good idea or not, but I just felt so bad for poor wee!Sam (and to a lesser extent, grown-up!Sam). In his case, the Djinn-induced hallucination is probably the better world._


End file.
